


The Dancing Shiva

by huntingosprey



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huntingosprey/pseuds/huntingosprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with an apparently simple case and a parcel from India and ended in near murder and death. But along the way Holmes learns that there are some very murky and hidden secrets in Watson's past</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dancing Shiva

**Author's Note:**

> Written for shadowycat.  
> Cannon typical violence and off stage death of an OC.

_Apiary Cottage,  
Sussex._

_20th Nov 1937._

_My dear Paul,_

_It is, I know, the height of folly to commit this remembrance to writing, but in my twilight years I find that at last my memory fails me, and the task of writing is fast becoming beyond my means. Therefore, I have resolved to set it down that my posterity may know the full tale and, should it become necessary, be able to defend my memory from a position of truth. As you will now know, this manuscript will not see the light until I, the last survivor of these events, am beyond the reach of both the law and public opinion._

_In the short time that we have known each other, I have gained a deep respect for your tolerance and care; but I am also very aware that there is much you would dearly like to ask me concerning my former life. You will come to know in the proper time and manner why I tell you now that all those cases I have not yet published can be found in a variety of forms in the trunk in the attic, and this manuscript is not bound by the constraints that I have had to place on the others. You may do with this as you please when you please. I trust you to do what you think right._

_Your (late) friend and uncle (yes I know it's more complicated than that but please, humour an old man one last time),_

_J.H Watson M.D_

\-----

It is not often given to a man to surprise his friends completely by the sudden revelation of some skill or new fact, especially if that friend is Mr Sherlock Holmes. It is all the more remarkable, then, that I achieved this feat not in the early days of our acquaintance but after many years of sharing digs and dangers. I had long since grown comfortable with Holmes knowing the details of my daily life; the man, after all, only had to glance at me as I entered a room to work out where I had been, what I had done, and who I had met. It must have seemed to outsiders a strange sort of intimacy we shared during those years after my wife's death and his return - a widower, a confirmed bachelor and a steady stream of mysteries and danger - but we were content with our lives and, beyond the occasional moments of extreme peril that found us, relatively untroubled by our unorthodox life.

It was in the autumn of the year 1900 that the tale I am about to relate occurred. Spring of that year had been consumed by the attempted assassination of the Prince of Wales while on a state visit to Belgium; Holmes had been asked personally by the Crown to look into the affair, as there were ugly rumours about who had been behind the attempt. The case had come to not very much, and those who sought to destabilise Britain and Europe were quickly rounded up and imprisoned. Summer that year had proven to be very busy for both of us; looking over my notes I see it was then that the unpleasant business of The Poisoned Diplomats happened; there was also the West Indian Smuggling Ring case, and a truly scandalous affair that cost several MPs their careers. I for one was looking forward to the opportunity of putting my feet up and enjoying the fine weather when what Holmes had thought to be "a simple affair, Watson, no more than two days' easy work," turned into a series of events that could have cost me my life and both of us our liberty and reputations.

My first hint that this case was not entirely what Holmes had first thought it to be came with the first post on the last day of August, a small, well-wrapped brown paper parcel crudely addressed to 221b Baker Street but bearing no name. Holmes having gone out early on some errand, I left it on his chair to await his attention and went back to my writing. He returned, just as Mrs Hudson was setting lunch on the table, in high spirits and clearly satisfied by his morning’s work.

"Very well indeed," he said in response to my question about the state of the case. "There are a couple of points that don't fit quite yet, but I have every confidence that they will."

He picked up the parcel and examined it from all angles, sniffed it, ran a careful finger over paper and string, and frowned. A gentle shaking next to his ear apparently provided no further enlightenment, and he scowled blackly at the offending object.

"Well?" I queried.

"Not at all," Holmes snorted, "beyond the very obvious facts that it comes from India," he tapped a finger on the stamp, "was wrapped during the monsoon, and has been handled by a large number of people, I can tell nothing about it."

I hid my grin; it was very rare for Holmes to be so stumped. He must have caught the train of my thoughts, for he gave an offended sniff and turned to the mantle, reaching for his knife to slit the string. I hurried through the last bites of my lunch. I had no doubts that should whatever it was prove to be of importance to the case, we would be off without delay. Holmes pulled away the paper to reveal a wooden box. My heart sank as I beheld, for the first time in years, an Indian Army cartridge box with the markings of a place I had hoped never to hear from again. Holmes had, of course, noticed my change in countenance and was studying me as closely as he would any suspect.

"It means something to you, Watson?" Holmes said softly, holding out the box to me. "I would not pry into your affairs uninvited, I shall leav..."

"Stay." I barked the word at him almost as if he were some unruly private soldier.

He stared at me in shock for, in all the years of our acquaintance, I had never spoken to him so harshly. God only knows what he read in my face at that point, but he set the box before me and settled into his chair, eyes locked on to me. Telling myself not to be so foolish - that it could be anything, a gift from a former client or some faraway reader of my stories, anything but what I dreaded to find - I pushed open the lid of the box, feeling the burning of Holmes’ gaze as I reached into the straw and my fingers encountered cold shaped metal. Sick with foreboding I pulled out the item and dropped it heavily on the table as if it burned me. 

"Watson. Watson! John!" Holmes’ voice, sharp and carrying more than a trace of concern, pulled me out of a whirl of memories I had thought long buried.

"Easy old boy." Holmes, seeing my return to my senses, handed me a full glass of whisky. "You look frightful. I can't recall any instance I've seen you so..." He trailed off, hand waving in the air as if to conjure the right word.

“Terrified," I finished for him, taking a healthy swallow of the drink. "That’s the word you’re looking for, Holmes."

"I would not..." Holmes faltered and began again, "I have no wish to imply anything about…" He paused, clearly marshalling his thoughts before taking a deep breath and forging on determinedly. "Watson, I have had the good fortune to have had you at my side in many grave and dangerous situations, and never have I known you to flinch or be unmanned by fear. Whatever this is, it must be dire indeed to so affect you. Whatever service I may do for you, I will do it without question."

Remembering lessons learned long ago, I slowed my breathing and took firm hold of my courage. This was a thing I would have kept from him at all costs if I could, but now that was not an option. Best if it came out cleanly.

"Would you…would you ask Mrs Hudson not to disturb us for a while, and then lock the door in case we have any…" I gave him a soft smile remembering many a insistent invasion of our rooms, "…inconvenient visitors."

He nodded and left to speak to our landlady. I continued to concentrate on my breathing, seeking the calm I knew I would have sore need of soon. The snick of the lock turning sent a shiver down my spine. If I had read him wrong, he had always done what he felt to be correct and damn the consequences. I forced myself to look at him as he settled back in his chair. After all we had endured together, I could not believe that he would turn on me for this.

"You are afraid of me," Holmes said, disbelief thick in his tone. "Watson, whatever it is, never think I would abandon you."

I took a cleansing breath and tried to let go of fear. "It is no light thing, Holmes, to speak of or to hear. I am about, by my own words, to supply enough evidence to condemn myself on several counts under three different law codes."

Holmes’ eyebrows rose into his hairline at this, but a moment later his eyes sparkled and a sly grin had crept into the corners of his mouth. "I need hardly remind you, my dear fellow, that we are both technically guilty of a number of petty crimes." The amusement faded. "However terrible your confession, Watson, I will not turn you in, even if that means that I share your fate as an accessory after the fact."

I should have known better than to doubt him, but I must confess that his words , which I knew he would let bind him as fast as any oath, were a balm to my fears, a shield given to a man unarmed in the midst of battle.

"Thank you Holmes. I meant you no insult, but I have dreaded this moment for years." I glanced back at the box and searched through it to find the message that had to have been included, before facing Holmes again.

"You have, I know, read my account of our first case together," I began hesitantly

"Romanticized claptrap!" Holmes snorted, but with no bite in his tone.

I grinned at him for the rote complaint. "Yes, well…it was also very misleading about my army career. I did not, in fact, simply ride across India to Kandahar.”

“Lying, doctor? In print and in a respectable newspaper? Really, how do you live with yourself?” Holmes teased lightly.

I ignored him with practiced ease; he had a habit of making light of things when they troubled him. “Omitting highly sensitive and confidential information that had no place in the public domain. A medical officer is implicitly trusted, his bags almost never subject to search, and the amount of paper work he habitually carries around the perfect hiding place for… _delicate_ correspondence.”

Holmes lips quirked up at the corners "A _spy_ , Watson?"

"A _trusted messenger,_ " I corrected, "and, up to a point, empowered to act for the Crown." I shifted. Even now, so many years later, this felt like I was betraying my oaths.

Holmes studied me for a moment. "Well, it seems I am not the only one to appreciate your fine qualities after all. You can, I suppose, tell me nothing of the matter?"

I shook my head. "No, I'm sorry. I landed in Bombay, rode to…the place I needed to be, did what was necessary, and then…well then." I glanced down at the letter and across at the statue.

Holmes grinned at me. "I can see why you've kept so quiet. I can imagine the response from some of your female readers if it became known that you were involved in such clandestine colonial doings. You would be inundated with romantic proposals before the week was out."

Without knowing it, he had given me the perfect opening. Taking firm hold of my courage and praying fervently that I hadn't misread him, I answered, "and I would have as little interest then as I do now. Which is why I'm in this mess."

"Watson…" Holmes; voice was uncertain. "Have I…are you."

I nodded. "Not all cultures are so condemning of it as ours, and I spent many months in a maharajah's very tolerant household."

"But Mary!" he protested. "You loved her, Watson!"

"Yes, but it was a pale shadow of what I felt for another." I could not look at him, staring instead at the elegant Sanskrit script of the letter in my hand.

Holmes flew to his feet and began to pace. I did not need to look at him to see his agitation and disgust at himself for missing so fundamental a thing in the one man he thought he knew better than any other. He was gnawing at his lip as he paced, seeking a course of action that would do least harm and most good. That he had not recoiled in horror or summoned the police gave me heart that this was not entirely unwelcome news.

"It's all right, Holmes. I don't expect you to feel the same."

He dropped back in to his chair with a groan. "How long have you known?"

That statement was all the proof I needed that I had been right about him. "Since our first case." I looked up and tried to give him a reassuring smile. "I won't betray you Holmes. Nor will I force you into anything you don't want."

"And if I _did_ want it?" he asked, voice no more than a whisper.

"Then I would tell you that I wish I had spoken while there was time, that I can not bring myself to entrammel you in this business any deeper than you are now, and that perhaps, as much as I would wish otherwise, it would be better for us to remain friends." My voice was thick, and I have no doubt that he could read my desire and despair in my face and body.

"While there was still time?" Holmes echoed. "Watson, please - within the limits of your oaths - tell me plainly, _everything._ "

"While I was engaged upon Her Majesty’s business, I came to know a Captain Samuel Collins. Like me, he was retained by the viceroy to carry messages and act as necessary. It's a deuced uncomfortable situation to be in, Holmes - nothing to fear from the law or men in high places, but no support or council either." I drained the whiskey. "We fell into companionship and then…"

"…you were lovers," Holmes finished flatly.

"Yes, Collins was an ambitious man, an old India hand. I thought I could trust him." A bitter grimace twisted my face. "I was wrong. The business ended badly, and I was rescued from disgrace and possible execution only by the intervention of the Maharajah in whose court we were both resident. Collins had been trying to get him assassinated by a group of religious extremists. I foiled the attempt by accident, and in return Collins ruined me."

Holmes was silent for a long while as I fought to control my emotions. Then he said, "and now? Someone is threatening you with exposure, either as an invert or as the man responsible for political scandal?"

I nodded. "The Maharajah gave it out that I had died in the unrest that followed the exposing of certain facts, and used his political connections to get Collins posted somewhere he could do less harm. I was to be smuggled out of his court and province in the guise of a wandering holy man." I chuckled. "Even _you_ would not have recognised me - unkempt hair, scruffy, native clothing." I gave him a sly grin and purred. "I learned a lot from various teachers in those months."

Holmes stared at me, gulped audibly, and blushed. He knew my army nickname and now had some idea of the soundness of it and its root cause. 

I laughed softly. "Not all of it carnal, Holmes. Language, meditation and skill with various swords were all part of the curriculum. I was all set to leave when word came that Collins had been caught. Caught in business I can't talk about, and he would have been hanged if there hadn't been doubts about his sanity - partly because of his ravings about me and the things I had done or caused others to do.”

I took a steadying breath, I knew I had nothing to fear, but the act of confession was a final one. Words cannot be unsaid. “I am guilty of, or responsible for, a few murders, some theft, and technically an act of treason. My patron and I agreed it was too dangerous for me to remain in India, in case someone decided to take the accusations seriously, and so I was attached to the 66th Berkshire."

Holmes was nodding, fitting what I had said and what I could not say together with the sharp blade of logic. "You left India for Afghanistan and an appointment with a Jezeril bullet. Meanwhile, Collins, having escaped the rope, has also escaped imprisonment and is now hunting you, presumably blaming you for his exposure?"

"Yes, and I don't know." I held up the letter. "Before I left, the Maharajah said that if he ever found my life to be in danger, he would send me word and a statue of Shiva dancing as a cover for it."

Holmes looked quizzically at me, inviting explanation.

"Shiva was the god who danced creation into being and will destroy it with a dance," I supplied. "Dancing, of various sorts, being rather a recurring theme in the affair."

Holmes cleared his throat and blushed faintly. "Perhaps, then, you should see what His Highness has written to you..?"

I acquiesced and began to read the flowing script, while Holmes fiddled with the tea things. I was soon muttering curses in four languages and plotting how to keep Holmes safe, when a cup of strong tea was thrust under my nose.

"Drink, tell me the facts, and then we will work out how to resolve the issue." Holmes said.

"Holmes, you can't seriously mean to get involved in the trouble my, ah, _youthful indiscretions_ have brought down on my head?" I protested.

"I most certainly do, Watson. You have never flinched from helping me when I had need of you. I do not propose to be less of a friend to you," Holmes stated flatly, eyes hard, preparing to defy the cosmic order if necessary.

I knew that look of old, and knew I stood no chance of shifting his decision. "Very well, but Holmes, if this comes down to a choice of your reputation or mine, I will not allow you to be dragged down with me."

Holmes gave an offended sniff. "It won't come to that Watson. I will, however, have to tell Sergeant Douglas’s daughter that the search for her father’s mysterious benefactor will be delayed. It is no great matter - I am still awaiting answers from Trivandrum."

I choked on the mouthful of tea I had taken and stared at the box on the table. Holmes followed my gaze and made the connection.

“Ah. I did think it was stretching coincidence that we should both have business with India at the same time.” Holmes steepled his fingers in front of his face. “It is a land of dangerous fascinations, and for us, danger. Watson - the facts His Highness has written to you, if you please, and we shall see if we can tie the strands together.”

As succinctly as I could I gave him the facts. Collins had indeed escaped from the asylum just over four years ago. Left behind in his cell had been numerous writings detailing his hatred of me, and he had raved often enough at the staff and other inmates about what he would do to me if ever I came within his grasp. His highness wrote that at the time he had not been concerned as half the world had separated Collins from me, but an agent of his in England had returned home three months ago and reported seeing Collins in London, calling himself a major and concealing his madness from everyone.

Holmes heard me out without a twitch and was silent for a while after I had finished. “What I do not understand is how Douglas is involved. It seems an unnecessary complication.”

“I was not the only one to accidentally foil the assassination. There were four soldiers with me,” I said. “One died during the fight, one subsequently of typhoid and the other two I quite lost track of. It's possible that Douglas is one of them and that Collins wants to use him as bait or some such.”

“Hmm,” was Holmes’ response. “His Highness writes nothing of the man? He is not also providing for him in thanks for his life?”

I re-read the letter. “He says nothing about it here if he is.”

Holmes hummed again and reached absently for his pipe. I recognised the signs of impending thought and left him to it. Lord knows I had given him enough to think upon in the last half hour, so I busied myself in tidying away lunch and trying to regain my composure. The statue lay where I had dropped it. I stood it upright and began to contemplate where best to put it in our room. I was interrupted by a sound of amusement from Holmes. Glancing over I saw his eyes fixed on the statue and, following his gaze, found that by decades old habit I had offered it some rice from the meal and was sprinkling cold tea for it. I blushed and snatched at a napkin to clean my fingers, stammering an explanation.

“No need, Watson,” Holmes laughed. “Clearly, the lessons in being a holy man have stuck. When time allows you shall have to instruct me,” his grin became mischievous, “in all the arts you learned in His Highness’ court.”

I glared at him for a second before laughing. “All right, but I expect you to keep up. I won't tolerate a lazy pupil.”

Holmes dipped his head in acknowledgement, and then sobered. “Would you describe Collins, as best you can remember?”

I did so, adding that it may be best if I and my revolver accompanied him when he went out in case of trouble.

“No, no, I'm not going out,” he assured me. “I just wished to know if I have already seen him. Douglas was moved into a comfortable house in Agdon Street a month ago - some nonsense about a trust for old soldiers in India. His daughter has tried to write to the trust to thank them but the letters come back marked _not known at this address.”_

“I could make enquiries on that matter,” I offered. “I know some of the funds and mutual aid societies for soldiers”

Holmes nodded, no doubt remembering the many a late night call to veterans’ bedsides I had taken over the years. “Do so Watson. I shall pay another visit to Mrs Ruth O’Brien and see if any more information can be gleaned. But be careful. If this man is after you so desperately, he may stop at nothing.”

I acknowledged his concern and reminded him to take equal care, before leaving for my club as the first way post on this campaign.

It was very early the following morning that we made it back to our rooms, Holmes staggering up the stairs behind me soaking wet and filthy, and I not quite as drunk as any watchers would have supposed but reeking of cheap tobacco and drink. We gained the safety of our rooms before either of us spoke.

“Holmes, for heaven's sake get out of those clothes and into something dry,” I slurred. “You look like you took a dip in the Thames.”

“I did,” he muttered, already heading into the bathroom. “If you're not too far gone, would you start a fire, Watson?”

It took more time than it should to poke up the fire, but it was burning merrily in the grate by the time he returned and I had slumped into a chair with a cup of tea to help me dry out.

“Well, unexpected dip in the autumn Thames aside, a productive evening,” He remarked when he had perched in his chair. “It seems several old soldiers have been taken in by the same charity only to vanish without trace less than a month later. All of them had served in India.”

I felt ill, and not just with a surfeit of cheap drink and rough tobacco, that someone was using innocent men to get at me. “No one's heard of the Trust,” I grate out, “but I did run into Ian Johnson, government clerk in the district. He knew Douglas from India and confirmed that he was part of…of _the affair_.” I still didn't know what to call it, and silently damned the oaths that mean I can't confide in Holmes. “He also said that Douglas wasn't well. Sounds like Typhoid, but I'd have to see the man to be sure.”

Holmes hummed. “This plot has been laid for a long time Watson. I think we should go and see the house Douglas is in later today. It may help us plan out next moves.”

I agreed and then stumbled upstairs to my bed and fell into oblivion.

It was almost midday before I dragged myself out of bed, and having washed and shaved I joined Holmes in the parlour for a light lunch. His conversation was all music and the upcoming autumn concert season. Not for the first time I wondered how badly our friendship, our partnership, would suffer from my confession. He is a man used to absorbing facts at a rapid pace and forging from them a logical chain by which to guide his actions, but he is also the hardest man alive to read. He had promised me secrecy and I had no doubt he will take his knowledge of my sins to his grave, but I feared that they may mark the end of our life together.

“Nonsense, Watson,” he said suddenly. “I have no intention of ending our arrangements. You would have to do much viler things to earn my disgust.”

I sighed and, remembering that he had no trouble at all in reading me, said, “thank you. If I may ask, our plans for today?”

“Of course. Later this afternoon we will call upon the house where Douglas is. You as a doctor asked by his daughter, who is visiting him as we speak, to attend her father; and I as your assistant. Once we have gained admittance to the house and seen Douglas, you must distract anyone in the house whilst I have a look round. After that, we will have to play the hand we're dealt.”

I failed to suppress the grin that raced across my face. Unless I was much mistaken my unofficial criminal record was about to gain yet another entry for breaking and entering.

We finished our lunch without another word about the case passing between us, and after the meal had been cleared I made sure that my bag was well stocked with everything we might have need of later. I then sat back to await the lady’s summons. It came by messenger at about three of the clock, and Holmes made sure to leave it on the table where it could be seen by anyone entering the room.

It was a tense cab ride to Farringdon, both of us on edge with the thrill of the unknown danger awaiting us. The house was a modest but well kept place at the end of a terrace. When I rang the bell a middle-aged man of obviously Indian origin opened the door and looked perplexed when Holmes announced us as Dr Burbridge and his assistant. He answered in a stream of words I only just recognised as the native Malayalam language. Exercising my memory to its utmost I repeated Holmes’ words haltingly in the same language, and added that I had been summoned to see Sergeant Douglas. The man looked at me in astonishment, gabbled something, and vanished into the house. Holmes was regarding me with astonishment and he whispered as we heard returning feet.

“Yet another secret exposed, doctor. How many more things lurk behind that solid face?”

I ignored him as the first man returned with an Englishman who apologised for the lapse in allowing the first man to open the door. I repeated my alias and our errand to Douglas at his daughter’s request.

“Of course doctor. Sergeant Douglas is on the second floor. Mahmoud will show you.”

Our guide, whose name I was fairly sure was not Mahmoud from the things he was whispering under his breath, led us up two flights of stairs. The interior of the house was in keeping with the exterior - plain and well kept, although the stairs creaked horribly under us as we ascended. Holmes was taking in everything as we climbed, and I had no doubt that he could reconstruct the house’s floor plan from his observations. Entering the room where Douglas was lying on a bed, I at once saw that he was indeed suffering from consumption and that it was likely to prove fatal in short order. I went about my examination without haste, letting Holmes roam around the room as he pleased. Douglas had clearly been drugged with opium, his pupils were blown, he had poor coordination, and it took him a long time to answer my queries. He was also agitated, glancing at Holmes and the door and back again.

“Coalville!” I snapped Holmes’ alias. “Stop prowling like a tiger. Get that fellow outside to take you to the kitchen and fetch me a basin of hot water.”

“Yes, doctor,” Holmes responded meekly. “Sorry, doctor.”

Once he was gone and I heard two sets of feet on the stairs, I turned to Douglas who was plucking at my arm.

“Go, Watson.” He gasped. “Madman, kill you. Too recognisable still.”

I laid a hand on his where it gripped my sleeve “Easy Sergeant, I know. We came to see your situation and do some reconnaissance.”

“Too far gone…watch the punkawalla…mad like his master…in the plot,” Douglas got out before a bout of coughing gripped him.

At that moment Holmes knocked on the door and entered. I could see from his face that danger was close and so I made short work of setting a concoction of wintergreen and mustard in the water to steep.

“This should help you breathe more easily, Sergeant. I will come back later to see how you fare.”

We left the house as swiftly as possible, with only a few words to the English servant about coming back tomorrow to see how Douglas was doing. We were in a cab and away from the house before Holmes spoke.

“We had a close escape there, Watson. Collins came back just as I came out of the kitchen. I can't say if he recognised me, but he was suspicious, and that Indian fellow went up to him babbling before Collins dragged him into another room.”

I nodded grimly “Douglas remembered me, recognised me. Collins and the Indian servant are in it together, apparently.”

“How long do you think Douglas has left?” Holmes asked, eyes on the plate glass of the shop windows we passed.

“A week at the most,” I answered, watching him closely. “We're being followed?”

Holmes smiled. “Well done Watson. Cabbie! Change of address.”

He called out Mycroft's address and continued to watch the windows pass us by. I settled back into the cab and thought hard about what we could do. Threats had been made, but the only evidence of it was just that which would result in my death or imprisonment and Holmes’ ruin. My musings went round and round as we passed through London, and only when we pulled up at Mycroft's did I push them aside. Holmes rang the bell and we were admitted at once. We sat in Mycroft's library drinking tea and thinking.

“We need clear proof of his intent, Watson,” Holmes muttered. “Threats made in India years ago won't hold water with a judge or jury here and now. How to go about it, that's the trick.”

“There's the excuse of going back to check on Douglas,” I offered. “Collins may have written evidence of some sort, or he may be persuaded into making a hasty move.”

Holmes frowned. “The idea of you making yourself into bait is not a pleasant one, Watson. Clearly someone recognised you, otherwise why did Collins set the Indian to following us? No, I think the best thing is for us to pay a visit to the house after hours, and see what we can find.”

We debated the merits of this plan and that for another hour before Mycroft returned, whereupon Holmes gave him the barest bones of the matter. Mycroft flicked an eyebrow before declaring that we should do as we felt best, and we left with Mycroft's parting injunction, “for heaven’s sake, Sherlock, try to keep the fuss to a minimum. India is a touchy subject in the press at the moment,” ringing in our ears.

We made a quick stop at Baker Street to change into clothing better suited to burglary and for Holmes to pick up his tool kit, and after that we were back on our way to Collins’ house. We alighted a few streets from our destination, and walked down the street looking like just another two gentlemen out for an evening stroll.

“The kitchen has a door to the area at the back,” Holmes said softly. “We might try there, or through one of the windows on the first floor.”

“The stairs, Holmes!” I objected, remembering the noise they had made.

“The back stairs are stone,” he replied. “We can use those. It's a matter of getting into the house undetected. Ah, here we are.”

It was now late enough for full dark to have fallen, and not a window in the house before us had a light shining in it. We passed round the corner into the area and saw that there was no light in the kitchen either. I shivered and fancied I felt for a moment the cold hand of death on my shoulder. Holmes beckoned me and I pushed aside my disquiet and followed him as he crept towards the kitchen door. We crouched by the door as Holmes listened intently for sounds of movement within, before he withdrew a lock pick and began to probe the lock. I kept lookout in case the law felt obliged to take an interest in the neighbourhood.

A tug on my jacket alerted me to Holmes’ success with the lock, and I slipped into the kitchen behind him as silently as I could. We paused in the kitchen in case someone had been left to deal with us here. When we were certain that nobody was there, we climbed the stone back stairs.

“The study would be the best place to start,” Holmes murmured in my ear. “All these rooms have a convenient street facing window for a getaway if necessary.”

I nodded, and we paced across the tiled entrance hall towards the nearest door, when there was the crack of a warped floorboard shifting under someone’s weight. We froze and Holmes gestured me to pull back the way we had come. We took cover behind a sideboard and waited. After a while, it became clear that no one was stirring and we advanced towards the door again. Holmes had his hand upon the handle of the one furthest from the front door, when a hullabaloo arose upstairs and proceeded to descend the stairs.

“In swiftly!” Holmes barked and shoved the door open.

We had taken less than a step towards it, however, when Douglas’ voice cried out from the first floor. “Don't sir! For God's sake don't, 'tis death!”

The sounds of a scuffle increased, and Holmes and I turned from the door to race toward the stairs where, in the faint light that came in from outside, Douglas and the Indian servant could be seen struggling furiously. The man saw me and gave a savage howl before tossing Douglas down the stairs to land on top of Holmes, who went down under the sergeant. Having unencumbered himself, the man then charged down the stairs and threw himself at me in frenzied combat.

Between my service in the army and many years keeping Holmes' skin intact, I have some skill at hand to hand combat, and I managed to keep the man at bay sufficiently that I suffered nothing more than a few bruises, before subduing him with a blow to the temple that laid him flat. Holmes, meanwhile, had got Douglas to his feet and was listening carefully to a wheezed explanation when a shot echoed in the hallway and all three of us ducked. Visible through the doorway of the room Holmes and I had been about to enter stood Collins, revolver in hand. What little I could make out of his features in the firelight showed me that the years had not been kind to him and that the madness, which in my innocence I had taken for high spirits and the passions of youth, burned fever bright.

“The front door,” Holmes hissed, hoisting Douglas closer. “Cover us Watson.”

My revolver was in my hand in an instant and I snapped off a shot, which made Collins flinch out of sight. Holmes ran across the tiles, and I fired another shot when Collins head and arm reappeared. Then the front door opened and Holmes and Douglas were gone. I gathered myself loosed a third shot, and ran for the open door. A shot followed me and as I passed through the doorway I heard a scream of fury followed by the sound of a man running. As I reached the street Holmes, whistled for me from an alleyway and I sprinted for it as if still under fire.

“He's following me!” I gasped out.

“This way,” Holmes said, already hauling Douglas down the alley. “We can get a cab at the other end and be away.”

“North London Hospital,” I instructed the four wheeler that stopped for us a moment after we emerged on to the street.

Between us, we settled Douglas on the seat, but it was clear that his exertions had weakened him terribly and I held out little hope for his recovery.

“He said there was a device of some sort, “Holmes said as I did what little I could for our companion, “primed to kill you. ‘Tiger’s claws’ they called it, apparently.”

“We can do nothing more tonight, Holmes,” I pointed out gently.

He gave me a sidelong smile. “No indeed, and our presence with Sergeant Douglas will give us somewhat of an alibi in case of unwanted police intervention.”

It was a long night's vigil, and we had scarcely been back in our rooms half an hour when a very solemn and intent looking Lestrade walked in. I had been listlessly pushing the breakfast Mrs Hudson had brought up about my plate, and seeing the Inspector walk in I felt as if what little I had consumed wished to make a reappearance.

"My apologies for bothering you both so early, but I need to ask Dr Watson a few questions about his doings last night," Lestrade said in a firm voice.

I rose from the table and stood at parade rest in front of him, waiting for him to show his hand. Holmes leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow, apparently unconcerned by the implication in the inspector’s words and tone.

Lestrade looked at both of us and then asked briskly, "were you in the Farringdon area last night?"

"I was." I kept my answer short, my tone unavoidably military.

"Why?"

I took a deep breath and steadied my nerves in case it was necessary to lie to the law. "I was attending to an old Indian Army friend in his dying hours, Inspector."

Lestrade shot me an inscrutable look. "Would this ‘friend’ be a Major Samuel Collins, by any chance?"

I stiffened and my tone was icy. "No, sir, it was not."

Holmes laid a hand on my shoulder. "Easy, Watson. After the night you've had you, should be resting.” He turned his attention to the Inspector. “Now look here, Lestrade, what is going on? We've both been awake all night standing vigil at Sergeant Edward Douglas' death bed, and now you come insinuating some nonsense about Watson being involved with Collins."

The inspector looked with interest at Holmes. "You know the Major, Mr Holmes?"

Holmes waved a languid hand. "I know _of_ him, Inspector, and that is more than enough. Mycroft could no doubt furnish you with all the unsavoury details. The man has quite the reputation as an unsound pair of hands."

"Had." Lestrade said succinctly. "He was found cut to death in a house in Agdon Street this morning. His servant kept gabbling your name, doctor, along with some less than flattering descriptions of you."

Holmes snorted. "And you think that Watson here killed the man? Really, inspector."

"It's a fair suspicion, Mr Holmes. I take it from your reaction to his name you don't care for the man, doctor?" Lestrade asked.

"I do not," I replied. "We were, briefly, acquainted during my time in India and he very nearly cost me my honour, reputation, career and life. Had circumstances then permitted, I would have challenged him to a duel to settle the matter."

Lestrade stared at me and Holmes let out a soft whistle of astonishment, playing along with all his consummate skill at acting.

"May I enquire what the exact nature of the quarrel between you was?" Lestrade pursed his lips and considered me closely.

 

"No, you may not."

"Doctor Watson, it would be in your interest to tell me everything concerning your dispute with the Major," Lestrade entreated, "in order that we may strike you from the list of suspects."

"I am not at liberty to disclose the information," I told him, letting my voice fall into the flat rhythm and cadence of the soldier. 

"No, Watson? Whatever do you mean?" Holmes gave me a very creditable look of confusion.

"Some orders and oaths Holmes, Inspector, are perpetually in force. It was a Crown matter, and I am not permitted to disclose it to anyone at any time for any reason." 

Lestrade's eyebrows had risen into his hair. "Well, if that's the case then I'm not sure what to say, doctor. Can anyone else apart from Mr Holmes here corroborate your whereabouts yesterday night?"

“Sergeant Douglas was admitted to the North London Hospital about nine,” Holmes said truthfully. “We both stayed until about an hour ago, when his daughter came to take charge of the body. I'm sure the register of admission will support the facts.”

Lestrade took down the address. "Well, I hope that will clear it. It is a gruesome business, gentlemen. Man's been hacked into three by someone."

Holmes made a sound of disbelief. "Hardly the sort of act Watson would commit, inspector. That speaks of a man driven mad by strong emotion."

I nodded sharply. "If I were to have sought satisfaction from him, inspector, I would have done it cleanly and in front of witnesses. Not butchered him in the manner you have indicated."

"Look, Lestrade, give me an hour to get some breakfast into Watson and get him in to bed, and then I'll come over and have a look at the place," Holmes offered, a disarming smile on his face.

“Holmes!” I protested. “I don't need to be mollycoddled!”

“My dear Watson, you have been up since early yesterday, have spent a long time standing at attention by an old friend's deathbed, and your leg is clearly only holding you up by stubbornness alone,” Holmes said calmly. “If you carry on like this you shall bring on another attack of the enteric fever and be laid up for days. Allow me, for once, the liberty to deliver your own lecture on the need for food and rest.”

I glared at him. “Very well, I shall eat. But then I will accompany you, if Inspector Lestrade has no objections?”

I never found out if he had any objections, because as I stepped towards the breakfast table my leg gave out on me and I collapsed to the floor in agony. When I regained my senses I found I was in Holmes’ bed, and he was sat in a chair watching me closely.

“Relax, Watson,” he said. “The inspector helped me get you in here and has left. There is a tincture of laudanum for the pain and to help you sleep while I go and set Scotland Yard on the trail to discover how unbalanced Collins was.”

“But Holmes!” I began to protest but a fresh wave of pain cut me off.

“I will take care of it, Watson; no one need know the details of what happened in India,” Holmes reassured me, handing me a glass of laudanum. “Drink, sleep, and trust me.”

I had little choice. I was in no state to do anything else, but I was very uneasy as the drugged sleep claimed me. 

I returned to wakefulness hours later to find our rooms still empty. I settled in my chair in the parlour and waited. War is an excellent school to learn the art of waiting for the proverbial axe to fall on one’s neck; at every cab that paused in the street outside, I expected to hear the tread of police feet on the stairs and feel the cold weight of iron around my wrists. Evening was well advanced by the time I heard someone climbing the stairs, and I mentally braced myself for the worst.

“No Watson, it’s not the hangman. You can relax,” Holmes called out as he walked in. “In fact, aside from a scolding from Bradstreet I’m to pass on for you not having done more to obtain satisfaction from the Major for his insults, the worthies of the Yard have no interest in either of us.”

I slumped back in the chair, a deep sigh of relief escaping my lips. Truly I was a man delivered from fear of the law.

“How did you…” I began, my voice as shaky as I felt.

“By working out how to trigger the device, and finding the man’s journal.” Holmes shuddered. “The man was unhinged Watson, truly unhinged. He meant for you to be…” Holmes swallowed. “Well, let it rest, as it was to be you and not he who died on the device’s blades last night. He triggered it by accident rushing out after us. The police have already discounted the Indian servant as mad, and the Englishman, who discovered the body, is a known petty criminal, although probably innocent of any involvement in this.”

It was a telling measure of the danger my life was habitually in that this news occasioned in me no great feeling of fear. Instead I merely nodded and said that it must count as one of the closer calls with death that had happened to me over the years.

Holmes smiled at me. “Your courage never ceases to amaze me. However, we are not done with this affair. I have convinced Mycroft to impound all the major’s papers and journals on the grounds of state secrecy. This gives us the chance to destroy any incriminating documents before they fall into the wrong hands.”

I had not thought about what evidence Collins may have left in writing, and the thought of anyone stumbling across the truth relit the spark of fear that had smouldered all afternoon.

“Will Mycroft not notice that documents are missing?” I asked. “Holmes, what if he should find out?”

“Calm down, Watson. Mycroft is the consummate diplomat, willing and capable of turning the blindest of eyes on things he deems unimportant,” Holmes reassured me. “One of those things is the subject of my, shall we say, _preferences_ , and as he thinks highly of you as well, we have nothing to fear from him. As for the missing documents, he would hardly take kindly to the ravings of a lunatic on confidential crown business. It is not done, you understand, to keep such things in the official archives. Anything that demonstrates criminal activity and can safely be passed to the relevant authorities will be, and the rest…” He shrugged. “Well, we are approaching the cold season and we could do with kindling for the fires.” 

He handed me a cup of tea and looked at the dancing Shiva on the table. “We shall have need of as much firing as we can get. After all, I have a hard winter’s studying ahead of me at the hands of a strict teacher.”


End file.
